Chapter Seventeen
Cate
My mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Say something. Say literally anything. Yes. No. Maybe. I need to think about it. What exactly do you mean by “stay”? Can you define your terms? Do you have a PowerPoint presentation I could review?
But before a single coherent syllable could escape, Gabriel moved.
He leaned in. Not hesitant, not tentative, not asking for permission, and kissed me.
Oh. Oh my God.
Oh my God, oh my God!His mouth was warm and firm against mine, confident in a way that made my knees forget how to function. His hand was still cupping my face, thumb stroking my cheek, and his other hand—oh God, his other hand—slid to the small of my back, pulling me closer.
Not asking. No... he took and my brain exploded.
Not the metaphorical explosion from thirty seconds ago. An actual, literal detonation of every synapse, every thought, every rational cell in my entire nervous system.
Gabriel Lyon is kissing me.
Gabriel Lyon. My boss, Megan’s father, the most controlled man on the planet is kissing me in the hallway outside his daughter’s bedroom.
This is insane. This is—Oh my God, this is—I froze.
Completely, utterly froze, like someone had hit pause on my entire existence as his mouth moved against mine, coaxing, and I felt the slight pressure of his hand on my back, drawing me even closer, and something in my brain finally snapped back online.
Kiss him back, you idiot.
KISS HIM BACK.
I kissed him back.
My hands, which had been hanging uselessly at my sides like dead fish, came up to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. The fabric was soft under my palms, and beneath it I could feel the solid warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart that was definitely faster than normal.
He’s affected. Oh my God, he’s actually affected.
His mouth opened slightly, deepening the kiss, and I made a sound—some embarrassing, desperate little noise that I would definitely be mortified about later—and pressed closer.
He tasted like the lemonade we’d had at the carnival. Sweet and tart and somehow better than any dessert I’d ever made, better than the chocolate soufflé that won me second place at the culinary competition, better than the crème brûlée I’d perfected after three years of practice.
This is better than food.
Oh my God, something is better than food.
I’m having a crisis.
His hand slid from the small of my back to my waist, fingers splaying possessively, and I felt the pressure of his touch through my shirt like a brand.
I’m going to combust. Spontaneous human combustion is real, people, and it’s happening right now in Gabriel Lyon’s hallway.
I tilted my head, trying to get closer, trying to—What am I doing? What am I DOING? This is my boss. My BOSS. The man who signs my paychecks. The man who could fire me with a single word. The man whose daughter is sleeping ten feet away.
I’m kissing my boss.
